RMJ 225 September 28

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 28 ● Houston, vs Pittsburgh 

I awakened in time to read Alan’s feature while I ate cereal with passion fruit. Both were good. I was a little embarrassed by the part about my tobacco-chewing habit. But I have had people tell me that I am spitting half the time on TV, so I can’t really complain. It is hard to avoid scrutiny in this business.

Cubby didn’t come by until 10:00, because we had neither batting practice nor infield scheduled. Instead, we had an unannounced fan meet-and-greet at each of the four Astrodome entrances.

I put out a cast of seconds, hoping that another win would be the perfect tonic for Fan Appreciation Day. And that the Bagwell-and-Biggio issue would fade to gray.

 

Drayton came to chapel. He is really fired up about the playoffs. It’s about time he gets to strut a bit; he has spent a lot of money and time trying to rescue this team for the city. If we can beat the Braves in the playoffs, he will start getting back some small percentage of his losses.

The crowd at the north gate bubbled with joy. I could feel the warmth — an almost-palpable joy emanating from the ungainly cross-section of humanity that was heading for the bleacher seats. In the bleachers, propriety is actively ignored.

The craziness of the crowd and Drayton’s rectitude provided a vivid contrast, with one thing in common: the feeling that we are all a team, and we have won. Heady stuff. The stuff that can be more than a little disturbing — even intimidating. Knowing how many people are counting on you, and how much they care. How discouraging it is most years, when the long season ends and the playoffs begin — for somebody else.

 

When I got back to my office, the first thing I did was wash my arms, up to the elbows. Many species live in the sea of humanity, and I thought it possible that some had migrated to my little piece of shoreline.

I found several messages on my desk. There was a fax from Bob Bruce, the pitcher who started the first game the Astros ever played. A telegram from Ruth and Nolan Ryan. A fax from Solly Hemus and his Amazon River traveling party. They had done the river and ascended to Machu Picchu, whereupon they celebrated our victory a day late.

All these things gave today’s game the feel of an exhibition game. Bagwell and Biggio wanted to make cameos to keep their playing streaks alive. I substituted freely in the fourth inning.

At one point, Bagwell pinch-hit and Biggio came running up to me and asked if he could pinch-run for Brad. I was going to bring Tony Peña in for Brad anyway, so I said, “sure,” without really thinking about it.

Bagwell made an out, and Biggio was stranded. It was a piss-poor way to use Biggio. I wasn’t real happy about my judgment, and especially my malleability.

This is the same area where I have trouble with Julia. She gets these impulses, and she springs them on me, looking bright-eyed and eager — and I cave in, against my own instincts.

It is an area for self-improvement, that’s for sure. 

 

Later, I ran out of players, and the Pirates made a comeback. They tied the game in the eighth, and we had to play eleven innings. I was forced to let a pitcher hit, to prevent the possibility of having a pitcher play in the outfield.

We lost 5-4, and I felt mildly annoyed with myself. I hadn’t been as intelligent and economical as I should have been with my substitutions. I might have been able to milk out a win in the ninth if I had saved Biggio.

I took Sunday for a holiday, and that’s what it became. We lost a game in the process; it goes on my record.

I clearly recall a similar realization from my pitching career:

The first few years, I got a little lax when I had a big lead. After negotiating a few contracts and measuring myself against the other pitchers in the league, I made a conscious decision not to allow any easy runs, regardless of the score.

I was looking ahead to Atlanta, and I’m sure the players and the staff were too. But that is not a good excuse.